Tell Me a Story
by akaAuroraBorealis
Summary: Sherlock is eight years old and sick in bed.  His mother's writing him a story.  Sherlock's future relationship with John Watson is implied.  Romantic slash can be inferred from the context, but feel free to read as friendship only.


**Title:** Tell Me a Story

**Rating: **PG

**Pairings:** John/Sherlock

**Warnings:** None

**Word Count:** 2,000 ish

**Summary:** Sherlock is eight years old and sick in bed. His mother's writing him a story. Sherlock's future relationship with John Watson is implied. Romantic slash can be inferred from the context, but feel free to read as friendship only.

**Tell Me a Story**

"What are you writing, Mummy?"

It was late and Sherlock, throat raw from coughing, mind swimming with fever, kicked off his bedclothes in irritation. He felt miserable, yet he did not want to sleep, especially while his mother was doing something interesting.

"Shhh, it's nothing. Go to sleep, love."

His mother sat cross-legged in the stuffed chair at the far end of his bedroom. She was staring off into the darkness, the end of her Montblanc to her lips and in her lap, a bright yellow legal pad (borrowed from his father's study, no doubt) half covered with her wild, looping scrawl.

Sherlock, while only eight, was keenly aware of how others saw his mother, as distracted and flighty, a pseudo-intellectual dilatant whose lack of focus and drive in the domestic sphere may well be the reason her that boys, despite their natural gifts, affluence, and fine schooling, remained socially awkward non-conformists. Never formally trained in any field, she was an autodidact with interests ranging from literature to botany. So while many of her days were taken up by the usual concerns of an upper class mum (household affairs, charities, arts councils, and the like), other were spent reading or peering through a microscope or wandering the woods in search of some exotic plant. And on winter nights, when darkness and her children's bedtimes came early, she would curl up in some cozy out-of-the way spot and, with pen and paper, she would write stories. Usually she wrote just for her own enjoyment, but other times she wrote for her children. She once told Sherlock that writing was the best way she'd found to integrate all the seemingly disperate pieces of her life into something meaningful and personal, something that was more than just the sum of its parts. All Sherlock knew was that writing made her happy and that the affection in his mother's voice was never more evident than when she was reading something she'd written just for him.

"Is it a story?"

Sherlock crawled to the foot of his bed to get a better look at what his mother was writing. She took a minute to complete her sentence before looking up into her son's eager face, a mop of dark curls framing moist, feverish eyes. _So sweet when they're sick_, she thought, guiltily.

"Yes. But I've just started. I'm not even sure of the ending."

She smiled a little apologetically, knowing the limit of her talent, knowing that nothing she could come up with would either satisfy herself or enchant her child for as long as she would wish.

"Can I hear it when you've finished?"

Sherlock was slightly appalled but also fascinated by his mother's ability to take elements of reality and truth and weave them into what was, in actuality, a captivatingly beautiful lie.

"Of course."

"Is there a hero?"

Sherlock had read scores of books with all different kinds of heroes. He was still looking for _his_ hero, that mythical being he would become when he had finally, at long last, grown up.

"There'll be two, so that neither will be lonely."

Yes, Sherlock knew that his mother thought him lonely. And so he was, but not in a miserable way. Because how can you long for a wonderful companion whom you've never met? Anyway, his family wasn't all that bad, although he'd never tell them so, especially not bossy, know-it-all Mycroft. And besides, life was so full of fascinating puzzles that, really, he was rarely bored enough to dwell on things he didn't have, like a close friend. He almost wished his mother hadn't reminded him.

"So they're good friends?"

Sherlock's mother had put down her pen and put away all thoughts of writing. Sherlock was sick and needed rest. Perhaps a story, of a sort, would help him settle down to sleep. For Sherlock an unwritten story was probably more interesting than a finished one anyway.

"Yes. The best. As thick as thieves."

"Like Tom and Huck?"

"Yes, but grown up. They're tall and strong and old enough to be out on their own having adventures without anyone scolding them when they're not back in time for supper."

"I bet that when I'm eighty Mycroft will still be trying to order me about."

His mother stifled a laugh. Sherlock, she thought, had just seen his future. Mycroft had tried to boss his little brother even before Sherlock could talk and showed no signs of giving up.

"Well, you may be right about that."

"Maybe they could be warriors like Gilgamesh and Enkidu?"

Sherlock had loved the Gilgamesh tale. His mother had been shocked by how easily, at six, he understood the old flowery language.

"Warriors then? Alright. I think that can be arranged."

"Or like Achilles and Patroclus?"

Sherlock's mother's face froze, her mouth open in shock.

"Where, may I ask, did you hear _that_ story, young man?"

Sherlock recognized her parental voice, calm but firm.

"From Mycroft. He's been reading Plato's Symposium to me. So are they like them?"

Sherlock didn't want to get Mycroft in trouble—he liked that his older brother showed him things others would not. But his mother already knew, so lying was pointless. The truth, however, might get him answers.

"Mycroft has no business reading you that story."

Sherlock could hear the worry behind the words. But as his mother always seemed to be fretting over trifles such as dressing "appropriately" for weather or whether an animal was to be classified "indoor" or "outdoor", Sherlock chose to ignore her concern until he'd made his own assessment of the story. He needed more information.

"He says that Plato's version is the best because it isn't sanitized for the Babbitts of the world. Mummy, what are Babbitts and why are they so interested in hygienic books and what makes a book hygienic anyway?"

"Go to sleep Sherlock. That story is too old for you. I know you are clever, but there are some things you just can't fully understand and appreciate until you are older. You'll just have to trust me on this."

The fog lifted from Sherlock's fevered brain and it snapped to attention with the promise of uncovering something forbidden. It was as if his mother had just locked heaps of brightly colored Christmas parcels inside a closet and had hung the key up just out of reach. Now, how to get that key?

"It's because they were sweethearts, isn't it? That's usually what people mean when they say I'm too young for something. Either that or because it's violent. But you've read me violent stories before, _The Odyssey_ and _Grimm's Fairytales_, so it can't be that. So, _sweethearts_ it is. But kissing and the rest is just dull, Mummy—it doesn't bother me one bit. So you see I _am_ old enough to hear about Achilles and Patroclus."

"No, Sherlock, you are not. Despite what you think, you are young and green and innocent. And you're wrong: it's not because of the _kissing_."

The more she dodged, the more Sherlock needed to know. He was getting very tired and his head throbbed, but the agony of not knowing trumped all discomfort, especially when he was so close to understanding.

"Fine. Write any story you like. I don't care. But just tell me why I'm too young. I need to know."

Sherlock's mother took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Raising bright, inquisitive children was a joy and a sorrow in equal turns. They could delight you with how much they could see and do and understand. But it was their quick minds that made them so hard to protect. Sooner than the rest they would come to know things about life, sad painful things, that no man, woman, or child can change. Because, as we all come to learn, while bad things can hurt you, true despair comes from the loss of something good, the loss of someone you love. No child should know that.

"Achilles and Patroclus weren't just about _kissing, _Sherlock. They were very close friends, inseparable. It sounds clichéd, but it was like they were made for each other, like they were two parts of a whole. They lived together, fought together, and loved one another deeply. (Don't smirk, little man. It's unbecoming.) But they, like you and I, were human and so were mortal, and the big tragedy of their story is that they didn't _die_ together. Patroclus died first, bravely and honorably, on the battlefield. And when Achilles found out, he was so struck with grief that he went mad for a while and did some very bad things. There is no way, as clever as you are, my brilliant son, that you could possibly understand or appreciate their story. And, believe me, that's a good thing."

Sherlock's mother had stood and was gently leading her son back to the top of his bed. Her answer must have satisfied him because he was unusually compliant, his body relaxed, his eyes heavy with sleep. She tucked the duvet under his chin and kissed his forehead. It was cooler. She smiled.

"Why don't I write a story about two heroes who are best mates, who live and fight together, side by side, and always live to see another day. Would you like that?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, eyes closed.

"Goodnight, sweetheart." She picked the pen and paper off of the chair and switched off the light. A small voice in the dark stopped her midway to the door.

"Mummy?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"I'm Achilles."

"You think so?"

"Of course. I just have to find my Patroclus. "

"You will. Someday, sweetie."

"He'll be older and he'll take care of me when I get hurt and he'll look after our horses while I draw up the battle plans."

"You'll have horses?"

"Definitely."

"Goodnight."

Sherlock's mother left the room and headed for the kitchen to get a glass of water. She made a mental note to speak with Mrs. Lindsey first thing in the morning. Mrs. Lindsey lived down the road and kept a very gentle gelding at the local stable. She was always offering to let the boys ride him, and there was no question that Sherlock would be up at the crack of dawn looking for a horse.

Behind his closed eyes Sherlock could see two figures off in the distance. They were on horseback, riding swiftly across an open field. Although they were mere shadows, featureless and indistinct, he knew who they were. One was himself and the other was his mate, his best friend, his perfect other half. They were together on an adventure, and they were happy. Sherlock smiled because he knew that, in this dream, he had total control. _I will make sure that if we have to die, we die together_, was his last thought before he let go and the dream took flight.

-fin-

Extra info:

The term Babbitt, from the Sinclair Lewis novel by the same name, has come to mean a narrow-minded and complacent member of the middle class.

From Wikipedia: There are many different version of the story of Achilles and Patroclus. In most versions, including Plato's, they were lovers. In Xenophon's version, they were simply very close friends. In any event, they fought together in many battles, shared a tent, and in general looked after one another. When Patroclus was killed in the Trojan War, wearing Achilles' armor (long story), Achilles avenged his death by killing Hector (Patroclus' killer) and dragging the body behind a chariot, a war crime in those days. After Achilles' death, at his request, his bones were mixed with those of Patroclus so that they could be together in death as they had been in life. Whatever its exact nature, their love was epic. Sound familiar?


End file.
